


Trust

by WhisperElmwood



Series: FBAWTFT Glossary [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autism, Autistic Newt Scamander, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Newt finds Credence, Newt wants to help, Newts a mama bear and doesn't care who knows, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 18:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10668525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperElmwood/pseuds/WhisperElmwood
Summary: “Credence - can you trust me? For just a little while?”





	Trust

Credence comes back to himself and it's dark, cold and damp. 

It’s as dark and cold as the basement where Ma had frequently locked him, amongst the broken furniture and neglected piles of dusty coal; where he had curled up and coughed himself to sleep on more than one occasion, the wounds of his punishment turning black and stinging, despite his care to keep them clean. In the basement, there had been the coal shoot and a tiny, grimy window that let in sunlight and streetlight, pale as it was after passing through the layers of dust and mould on the thick panes, through the soot heavy air. The light here is just as weak. Just as useless.

He doesn’t know why he thinks of the basement now. Only that something about the space he has pushed himself into reminds him of it.

He knows without having to look, without having to open his eyes, that he’s curled up, huddled into himself, in what remains of the church. He's tucked himself under some fallen masonry, fallen, splintered boards and shattered glass. If he moves, he’ll hurt himself. He finds he doesn’t care.

It takes him a while to place the sound he can hear all around him. Rain. 

Credence is somewhat sheltered where he has curled up, but he can hear it, pattering on the boards and the stone around him, heavy and dull, drowning out the sounds of anything that may be happening on the street. 

Except. 

Credence turns his head, very slightly, eyes snapping open, as something shifts within the remains of the church. 

The air is damp, heavy with water, the rain making it hard to see more than a few feet from his hiding place. But he can see someone moving around, a shifting shadow against the weak light from the street coming through the holes in the walls, the broken shutters and smashed windows. 

“Merlin’s beard!” 

The shadow drops with a resounding thump, a clatter of broken boards, further shattering of glass. Credence shrinks further into his hiding space, tucking his head into the space between his drawn up knees and his chest, chews his lip in order not to make any noise. Perhaps whoever it is will miss him if he’s quiet enough, believe the broken remnants of his home empty and go away. 

They don’t go away. 

Credence holds himself even tighter as he hears whoever it is get up, twitches at the thumping sound he thinks is them dusting themselves off. His fingers grip the scratchy fabric of his jacket, tight enough to hurt, nails pulling and bending on the stitching. The grip presses his scars together, old and new, stretching and compressing, a pain he’s grown used to. 

Unsteady steps move closer to his little space and he shrinks even further into the shadows. A sound on the street manages to filter through the dull roaring of the rain and he cringes, pushes further into the dark, presses against the damp, cool wall. Any body-heat he still has leaches into the stone, leaving him shivering. 

“Credence?” 

The steps move quicker, closer and Credence curls even tighter into himself, even as a part of him recognises the voice, the accent. 

“Credence - oh, thank Merlin. Queenie was right.” 

He risks a glance up and the shadow has come close enough now that the weak light picks out colours and features. Blue coat, wavy red hair, sharp nose and thin lips. The Englishman from the subway. 

The man who’d offered to help him, before Mr Gra-  _ before _ . He remembers seeing this man writhing and screaming in pain on the tracks. 

Another noise from the street, a crash followed by yelling, has them both flinching and staring at the gaping hole where the front door used to be. Nothing but the rain and cloying damp darkness. Credence quickly pulls back into himself again. 

“Go - go  _ away _ ,” he whispers, voice broken, throat scratched and sore. 

“Credence, do you - do you remember me?” 

He wants to lie, wants to tell the man that he doesn’t, thinks that maybe that would make him go away, but Ma’s voice in his head prevents him. He nods, face still hidden in his knees. 

“Good - that’s good.” 

A shifting sound, of shoes on rubble, fabric sliding together, a release of breath. He thinks the man has crouched closer, can’t be sure without looking up, and he doesn’t want to do that. 

“Credence, I meant what I said. I want to help you.”

The man’s voice is soft, but rushed, bursting from him as if he needs to get the words out as quickly as he can. Credence gives in, shifts his head just slightly, enough to glimpse the man between his knee and shoulder. 

He’s looking right at him, expression tense, eyes wide. 

“That’s what - that’s what  _ he  _ said,” Credence whispers, distrustful, voice shaking now. Fear, pain, exhaustion.

The man’s expression falls, and it’s a strange thing to see sadness rather than pity or disgust, anguish rather than anger or hatred in the face of someone looking directly at him. 

“I know Credence, and I’m sorry that happened - I’m sorry  _ any  _ of this happened, all of this. It shouldn’t have. It should  _ never  _ have -” He breaks off with a jerk of aborted motion as another cry rises from the street, distance and rain making it unintelligible. It’s closer this time. 

The man turns back to him and his eyes are even wider, expression gone almost frantic with worry. The man’s red hair has been plastered to his skin by the rain, his lovely blue coat is sodden and heavy looking, but he stays where he is, crouching at Credence’s side, heedless of the downpour surely soaking him to the bone.

“Credence - can you trust me? For just a little while?” 

And the man offers his hand, movements urgent, and looks over his left shoulder as more noises fill the street suddenly. He looks back at Credence again, his hand never wavering in its offer. 

Credence isn’t sure he can. But he remembers this man offering to help him before. Remembers the way he had screamed and screamed but not backed down. Sees, now, the concern in his eyes, the desperation in his body language. 

“I want to help you,” the man repeats, soft and sure. 

Credence unfolds and reaches out.

The man’s hand is as warm as his smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> Might make a series. But my brain is plagued with roughly ten different series at the moment. So... *cough*
> 
> (Also, I headcanon Autistic!Newt and Asexual!Newt, so if I do continue this, that's what y'all are getting)
> 
> ETA: I started making not on a part2 SO THERE'S THAT


End file.
